The hawk is dead, p.36
The Hawk Is Dead, page 36
Rose Cadoret had a completely crazed look on her face. Was it the same look she’d had when she’d killed the Taliban patrol? ‘Rose,’ he said calmly. ‘This is not going to help you.’
‘Is that the best you can come up with, Detective Superintendent Grace? What would actually help me would be a first-class air ticket to a country with no extradition treaty with the UK.’
A pigeon flew close overhead. He heard the faint wail of a siren but it wasn’t coming here, it was moving away into the further distance.
‘Is that what you want, Rose?’
‘Of course. But I’m not going to get that, am I? Instead I want to talk.’
‘So, talk.’
‘Move around,’ she commanded. ‘Move away from the balustrade.’ She still held both weapons out towards him at arm’s length and threateningly.
They executed a kind of clumsy dancers’ shuffle, Grace not taking his eyes from her face, until she was now the one with her back to the balustrade.
At that instant, Grace heard a shout, a really loud bellow.
‘DROP YOUR WEAPONS. THIS IS THE POLICE. DROP YOUR WEAPONS.’
She didn’t flinch.
Grace glanced fleetingly back and saw to his relief Glenn Branson and three Royal Protection Officers – two of them with their automatic rifles braced. Then he focused hard on Rose, waiting to see what she did and to seize his moment. To his relief, she let her weapons fall to the ground. He heard the clatter.
His relief was short-lived.
Before he had any time to react, she jumped upwards and back, landing on the narrow, flat, balustrade rail. She wobbled, flailing her arms, and for a horrified instant he thought she was going over backwards. But as he lunged forward to try to grab her, she shot a leg out into his chest and shoved him backwards so hard he almost lost his balance.
Then she stood, calmly, like an acrobat or a gymnast, on top of the balustrade, in her black trousers, woven waistcoat and white trainers, wavy hair blowing in the wind. She was hardly swaying at all now and had her balance, but it looked to Grace a very precarious balance. He was scared that at any second she would topple backwards.
Suddenly looking past him, she yelled out at the top of her voice, ‘Stay back, don’t come any nearer or I’ll jump.’
Grace shot a glance over his shoulder. Branson and the three RaSPs stood still. Both rifles were still trained on Rose. He turned back to the woman. ‘Rose, come down, please.’
‘Why?’
‘So we can talk.’
‘I can talk here. But do we have anything to talk about?’
Roy Grace had once been trained as a suicide negotiator and had been called out on four occasions to try to talk people out of taking their lives. One had doused herself in petrol. One was standing on a parapet at the top of a multi-storey car park – much like Rose was standing now. One had a gun to his head. And one was threatening to drive his car over a cliff. Somehow, he had managed to talk each one of them out of it. But it had been a long time ago. He was trying very hard to remember all the key points from his training now.
‘Tell me about yourself, Rose.’
‘What?’
‘Tell me about yourself. I want to try to help you.’
‘Seriously?’ she said with a derisory tone. ‘You don’t want to help me, you’ve just nicked me. That’s why you’re here. Well,’ she said, with a sudden big smile and an expression on her face as if all her cares in the world had gone. ‘I’m not going to let you do that, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace. Nice knowing you. Bye!’ She raised a hand, waved and toppled backwards.
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As Rose started to fall, Grace lunged at her, somehow just managing to grab her legs below her knees. But his hands got barely any grip on the shiny material of her trousers, and slid down to her ankles. Then her trainers. Which were laced tightly.
She stopped with such a sharp jolt it almost pulled him over the top of the balustrade, and he bashed his chin painfully on the rough surface. In this position she was a dead weight, and he was holding her with all his strength. But she was pulling him over. He stared down in horror at the very long drop to the gravel path, way beneath them.
Suddenly he felt his feet leave the ground.
Oh shit, no.
He was going to fall.
The tails of his suit jacket flapped over his head and he heard the jangle of coins and other items tumbling out.
Is this how it ends? he wondered, bleakly, suddenly. Thoughts were flashing through his mind. Not that long ago I said goodbye to my first-born son for ever, and now this. Never see my family again.
An instant later he felt hands, like iron clamps, gripping each of his legs and the reassuring voice of Glenn Branson. ‘Gotcha!’
Way below he saw three people walking along, all in hard hats, one holding a clipboard. Totally oblivious to him above them.
The woman was kicking out, struggling like a hooked fish, trying to break free of his own grip. And her weight felt like it was pulling his arms out of their sockets.
He shot a glance up, just as the wind blew his jacket tail clear, and saw Glenn Branson peering anxiously down at him, leaning over the balustrade with a burly officer either side of him doing the same.
‘You’re a heavy bastard, aren’t you?’ Branson said.
‘This is probably not a good time for me to argue with you,’ Grace replied, feeling sick with relief as the strain of Rose Cadoret was relieved by the RaSPs.
Branson hauled him up and over the balustrade and back onto the roof. He stood giddily for some moments, swaying as the blood rushed from his head, and his colleague gripped his arm firmly to stop him from falling.
Grace saw the third officer had Rose on the ground, and was cuffing her hands behind her back.
‘You bastards!’ she shouted. ‘You know how much that hurts?’
The officer hauled her to her feet, keeping a tight hold on her, and she stood, arched, glaring at them all.
Grace took some deep breaths then looked directly at her. ‘As I was saying before we got interrupted a little earlier, Rosemary Catherine Cadoret, I’m arresting you on suspicion of theft and on suspicion of conspiracy to murder. I’m now adding to that assaulting two police officers and attempting to murder another police officer. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Your arrest is necessary to prevent injury or harm to a person, prevent your disappearance, and for the prompt and effective investigation of your conduct in this matter.’
‘I want to say something,’ she retorted, sullenly.
‘Go ahead,’ Grace said.
‘It’s not me you want, Detective Superintendent Grace. I’m just a minion. It’s Sir Tommy. He’s the man you want. He’s the mastermind. He just forced us into this, Jon Smoke and me, because he had some evidence from Afghanistan on us.’
‘Yes, I had come to the same conclusion,’ Grace replied.
‘Go talk to him. If you can catch him in time.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He may already have gone.’
‘Gone where?’
She said nothing.
‘Gone where, Rose?’
She gave him that feral look again. ‘You’re the detective. You figure it out.’
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Roy Grace turned to the officer who was holding Rose Cadoret’s arm, his stomach and chest hurting from where she had kicked him, although at the moment he barely noticed. ‘I suggest two of you escort her to custody – she’s got quite a line in fancy footwork.’
‘Very funny,’ she said, almost spitting at him.
He turned away, then patted his pockets, checking what was missing. His wallet, handcuffs, house keys had all fallen out. He’d have to worry about retrieving them later. Glenn Branson reached out an arm and handed him his phone. ‘Think you dropped this, boss.’
‘Brilliant! Good work, thanks.’ He ushered Branson away. As he did so, one of the officers called out, alarmed.
‘Sir! You’ve blood on your face – your chin.’
Grace stroked it with his hand. It was sticky. He looked at the palm and saw streaks of blood. But right at this moment he didn’t care, adrenaline was coursing through him.
Branson took a good look. ‘You might need stitches, boss.’
‘We need to find Sir Tommy and see if Rose is bullshitting, or right.’
‘And your feeling is?’
‘That she’s right.’ He turned to the third police officer, a man-mountain with a thick beard. ‘Can you take us to Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey’s office right away.’
Last night Grace had obtained a search warrant for Tommy’s office and home. It was in his pocket if he needed it.
‘Yes, sir. You sure you’re all right and don’t need to see the doctor?’
‘What’s your name?’ Grace asked him.
‘PC Beckett, sir.’
‘OK, thanks, PC Beckett. I don’t need a doctor, I need to see Sir Tommy very, very urgently.’
The two detectives followed Beckett, racing down the stairs all the way to the first floor, then along a maze of corridors, some of which now looked familiar to Grace, until they were back in one that was very definitely familiar, at the top of the short staircase. PC Beckett stopped outside a door and knocked. He knocked again. There was no response. He turned to Grace. ‘Doesn’t seem like he’s in, sir.’
Grace opened the door and peered into a spacious, very traditionally furnished office with fine paintings on the wall and a window overlooking the gardens. There was nothing on the mahogany desk at all, other than a leather blotter, an antique silver calendar, a computer terminal and keyboard. It looked more like a desk in a vacant hotel suite than a working office. Like it had been cleaned out of everything.
He turned back to the officer, Rose Cadoret’s words ringing in his ears.
He may already have gone.
‘You know where Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey lives, in St James’s Palace?’ he asked Beckett.
‘Yes, I do, sir, I’ve been on guard there many times.’
‘Can you take me the fastest route there. We need to run.’
They ran. Along the corridor, down the stairs and into the courtyard, through the archway and across the parade ground. Another Protection Officer opened the gates for them, barking at the crowd to clear a pathway.
They sprinted across Constitution Hill and Green Park, and on, past the elegant white facade of Clarence House, the RaSP nodding at two of his colleagues at the entrance, around the side and up to the front door of Sir Tommy’s residence, directly across from the two RaSPs who were part of the team permanently stationed in the hut by the entrance barrier.
Grace knocked on the door, hard, and rang the doorbell.
Then heard a voice behind him.
One of the Royal Protection Officers, with a jovial, quite bucolic face, was walking towards him. ‘Sir, if it’s Sir Tommy you’re after, he and his missus have just gone on holiday.’
‘Holiday?’ Grace demanded. ‘Seriously?’
‘They left in a black cab – what – about an hour and a half ago.’ He turned to his colleague, who had now joined him, for confirmation. ‘We helped them with their bags. They had a lot of luggage. Travelling like Royalty, they were.’
His colleague, much younger, a tall, alert-looking woman, nodded in agreement.
‘A black cab?’ Grace asked. ‘Do you know the company?’
Both officers shook their heads.
‘Did either Sir Tommy or his wife tell you where they were going?’
Again they shook their heads.
‘Do you have CCTV here?’ Branson asked.
‘We do, yes, sir,’ the female RaSP said and the man nodded.
Five minutes later, Grace and Branson, crammed into the small hut with the two officers, watched the CCTV replay. On Grace’s watch, the time was currently 13.10.
The colour footage was scrolling forward from 10.30 a.m. At 11.32 a.m. a black taxi came into view and the red and white barrier was raised. It pulled up outside the Magellan-Laceys’ front door. The number plate was clearly visible.
Grace memorized it and immediately dialled Greg Mosse’s mobile phone.
The Detective Superintendent answered on the second ring. ‘Roy, good to hear from you! How’s it going, any developments?’
‘I’ll give you the full download, but this is really urgent, Greg. A black cab picked up the Magellan-Laceys from their St James’s residence at 11.32 a.m. today. I have the cab’s licence plate. I need you to find out which cab picked them up and where the driver was taking them.’
‘Am I missing something here, Roy?’
‘Possibly, Greg. I’ll update you, but first can you do this, as a matter of the greatest urgency – in our new spirit of cooperation?’
‘Absolutely, Roy. Consider it done! I’m on it, like a car bonnet!’
Promising to call Mosse back to explain, Grace ended the call and turned back to the RaSPs. ‘Do you have a bosher?’
‘You mean a big red key, sir?’
‘Exactly.’
‘What do you need that for, sir?’
‘To get into the Magellan-Laceys’ house.’
‘You don’t need a bosher, sir. They never lock the door. It’s not like they’re going to get burgled, with us standing fifty feet away, twenty-four-seven, is it?’
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Roy Grace and Glenn Branson entered the Magellan-Laceys’ London residence, which was starting to feel familiar, Grace thought. Although it had a strangely empty atmosphere now. But maybe that was his imagination?
As before, it felt to him extremely homely, more like being in a family farmhouse than a palatial residence. They both heard a plaintive miaow. Grace looked around and saw the couple’s dark brown cat sitting halfway up the staircase.
‘Hello, cat!’ Branson said. Then he turned to Grace. ‘Can you remember its name?’
‘George,’ Grace said.
‘Hello, George!’ Branson called.
The cat miaowed again, louder and more pitifully.
‘Sounds like he’s hungry.’
Lost in thought, Grace barely heard him. He was very mindful that Rose Cadoret could have been lying. But it was more than just mildly suspicious that, in the middle of all that was going on, Sir Tommy and his wife had gone off on holiday without mentioning a word about it to him.
And that they had a lot of luggage with them, too. Travelling like royalty, the RaSP had just said. A lot of luggage?
As they entered the kitchen, Branson said, ‘What the hell?’
‘That wasn’t here before,’ Grace said.
‘It sure wasn’t.’
Out in the hallway was a shrill, ‘Cuckoo’. But they barely noticed it as they stared at the tall, black machine standing beside the wooden kitchen table. It looked like an industrial-size photocopier. But both detectives instantly recognized it as a paper shredder. The bin tray was open, showing it was full to the brim.
Alongside a ceramic bowl of bananas and apples on the table was a tall stack of A4 paper, all with printing on. It looked like someone had been interrupted in the middle of shredding it.
Grace and Branson looked at the top sheet. But couldn’t make any sense of what they saw.
/
@app.route(’/’)
def index():
return render_template(’index.html’)
@app.route(’/login’, methods=[’POST’])
def login():
submitted_key = request.form[’key’].encode(’utf-8’)
if submitted_key == b’correct_key’: # Simulate key checking return “Invalid Key. Access Denied.”
The next page contained more of the same. As did the next, and the one after. And reams more.
Grace looked at Branson, frowning. ‘Recognize the language?’
‘I’m guessing it’s computer,’ the DI replied. ‘Code, algorithms, some kind of software program.’
Grace took a photograph of several sheets. ‘I know someone who’ll be able to tell us.’ Then he emailed them with a note to Shannon, asking her to call him as an absolute priority the moment she received this. He glanced at his watch, and decided he would give her five minutes.
But she needed less than two. He stared at her emailed reply.
A little basic, I’d have done it differently. It’s software code for an online auction site – on the dark web.
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‘It looks like the very charming Rose Cadoret might be right,’ Grace said.
Branson nodded, pensively.
‘I think we—’ Grace was interrupted by his phone ringing. He answered. It was Greg Mosse.
‘Is this fast enough for you, Roy? I’ve got what you need.’
‘Already? Nice work, tell me?’
‘The black cab that picked up Sir Tommy and Lady Fiona was booked yesterday afternoon at 5.24 p.m., for a pickup at 11.20 this morning.’
Grace thought back. That was shortly after he’d been in communication with Sir Tommy about interviewing Rose Cadoret, and the whereabouts of Jon Smoke. ‘Where did it take them, Greg?’
‘To London Heathrow Airport – Terminal 5.’
‘Did they talk to the driver at all, about where they were going?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. My officer spoke to the driver, but the driver said they hadn’t spoken – but they paid him and gave him an extremely good tip, in cash. What’s going on, Roy?’
‘It looks like Sir Tommy is doing a runner.’
‘A runner?’
‘Let me explain it all later. We need to find them, stop them getting on a plane.’
‘Them?’
‘Him and his wife. I’ll call you back, I’m going to be needing your help.’
